


Lullaby

by aus_der_traum



Category: Original Work, World War II - Fandom
Genre: Comfort, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Imprisonment, Nuremberg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 12:53:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11783553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aus_der_traum/pseuds/aus_der_traum
Summary: There are so many ways to starve a man. Not that he ever thought about it, before. And why should he have? He had no reason to contemplate torture. It were others who got their hands dirty, other men who made the wheels in the big machine turn, he was just a little cog, nothing more. Has he not, in the end, been merely a pawn in Hitler’s great and ill-fated plan? Someone who did as he was told and knew nothing of the logistics of extermination or the intricacies of pain?





	Lullaby

There are so many ways to starve a man. Not that he ever thought about it, before. And why should he have? He had no reason to contemplate torture. It were others who got their hands dirty, other men who made the wheels in the big machine turn, he was just a little cog, nothing more. Has he not, in the end, been merely a pawn in Hitler’s great and ill-fated plan? Someone who did as he was told and knew nothing of the logistics of extermination or the intricacies of pain?

They all claim this and is it not, for all of them, at least a little bit true?

The victors however are intent on filling these gaps in their education and give them a little taste of their own medicine. As the months drag on and on, and the effects of imprisonment, the unholy wake-up time and sparse meals and isolation, begin to take their toll, and he hears about dreadful things every day (and what terrible things they are), he seems to be able to think of little else anymore than how easily you can make a human suffer. 

It doesn’t take much. You don’t have to go to great lengths or invent outlandish cruelties; it turns out it is already terrible to be deprived of human company. For weeks no one to speak to, no letters, no postcards, no word from Annelies or the children, and he can feel the strain on his mind; he can sense his sanity cracking like ice under too much weight and underneath the dark, deep, cold nothing. He worries about his family. He misses them. He wants to hug them and hold them tight, and it’s this craving that soon becomes the worst. There’s a primal level to this starvation, the simple lack of physical contact is unbearable after a while.

He doesn’t even notice it at first how the hunger comes to live in his very skin. It starts as an odd urge to touch himself, rub his hand over his forearm or the back of his neck. Feel he is still there, not just a wooden doll with a man’s mind. At mealtimes he catches himself bumping into his comrades more often than necessary, a casual touch on the arm, a brushing of shoulders, an encouraging slap on each other’s back. They’re all doing it. They must all experience the same longing.

He tries to distract himself from this base need by remembering other sensual details of life – the feeling of grass under his bare feet, the prickling of champagne on his tongue, the wind in his face, the road stretching ahead, seemingly endless, the glitter of chandeliers, the cosiness of his own bed – but too often he finds he can’t conjure up these memories anymore either. It seems as if he’s slowly fading away.

The nights are long and lonely when he lies awake on his bed, hands on the blanket as prison regulations dictate, trying not to worry, not to think at all, and also trying to ignore this itch in his fingers. They’re watching him around the clock, he can feel their eyes in the dark. There’s no hiding from them, no privacy, no matter how much he wishes they would give him just a couple of moments. His skin is hot and dry and too tight.

Maybe, he thinks, maybe he is already dead and this is hell. No unspeakable torment, just watching yourself coming apart, crumbling and crumbling and crumbling.

But then, one morning, he wakes to a cool hand on his forehead, smoothing back his hair. A female voice says his name, he registers dimly the American accent, but he’s too drowsy to wonder why someone should be in his cell, and a woman of all people. Sleep still has him tight in its embrace and he merely blinks, unable to keep his eyes open. It’s too nice a dream not to cling to it, enjoy the gentle fingers, the soft lips against his brow.

They’re two, he realizes, two women. They’re telling him he has to get up, get ready for court but all he wants is to stay in bed and let them comb their fingers through his hair and listen to the sweet endearments they have for him, cute little foreign words that are so strange and yet so familiar.

Later when he sits in the prisoner’s box he wonders what a curios trick his mind played on him, making up not one but two playmates. But when he is back at his cell and night falls, he will lie back on his bed in anticipation and hope for them to appear. And as soon as he closes his eyes they do.

They come to visit him more often as time goes by, snuggling up next to him in the dark, arms around him, a warm body pressed against his back, a head tucked under his jaw, hands petting his hair. They tell him of Annelies and that he shouldn’t worry, they tell her how the children do, how they miss him, how they do know that he loves them too. And sometimes he cries into their silky hair, sometimes they wipe the tears from his cheek with tender, loving fingers.

But it’s not just these sad tales they bring. They also remind him of better, of glorious times, of large balls and glamorous parties, of lazy Sunday mornings and blissful childhood days, of sunsets and mist over the fields. They describe where they come from, paint towns and cities and landscapes for him in colourful pictures, so vivid he can almost see them before his inner eye. They read to him, when he falls asleep and they sing songs for him too, familiar tunes, strange melodies, old lullabies, and it’s so much easier to find rest like this, in the embrace of dreams.

He’s careful not to look at them, afraid they will vanish at once if he tried. He keeps his eyes firmly shut and lets his other senses take over. How good they feel against his hungry skin, how lovely they smell, how wonderful it is not to be alone.

One evening they feed him strawberries dipped in cream, the fruit are ripe and sweet and he chases after their fingers with closed eyes and so much abandon, it makes them giggle and chide him good-naturedly for his eagerness. “Not so greedy, darling,” they say, and yes, maybe someone should have told him that sooner, he could have had a nice life in a splendid house, plying his trade, raising his children. It was not that he had needed more money or influence. If only he had stayed out of politics, if only if only if only…

They must have felt the gloomy thoughts for one of them is leaning in and presses her lips to his, only quickly, it’s a chaste little kiss, but it’s a kiss and it stirs up a need he has almost forgotten about. He does something he has so far refrained from for fear of destroying the dream – he reaches out to touch that unknown woman, pull her closer, pull her into a proper kiss, and to his amazement, she lets him.

She feels as solid as any girl, her hair soft, her skin warm, her lips so good against his. The kiss tastes of strawberry and cream and life and he can’t get enough of it. He wants to eat her up, he’s so hungry. He wants to lick the summer scent off her skin, the hints of salt and perfume, he wants to know if she’s wet for him, he wants to lap up that wetness, make her wrap her thighs around his head to pull him closer against her.

Her touch is electric when she slips her hand under his shirt, his skin tingles under her fingers. They glide over his torso, tracing the outline of his collarbone, the shape of his ribs that are too prominent under the skin now, after months of too little food. His stomach muscles quiver as her hands slide deeper. He feels strung so tight. He wants to say something but she puts a finger over his lips.

“Hush, darling,” she says, “Let us take care of you.” And she kisses him again.

There are two mouths on his skin, two pair of hands, and they are stroking and petting and soothing and teasing until his mind is mellow and weak and he only feels and doesn’t think anymore. All is so good and easy and light of a sudden. His body is vibrating with a soft, nearly subdued kind of pleasure and he dimly registers that it might be the last time he feels like this. But it’s all right, everything’s finally all right.

The day comes when his sentence is proclaimed, and for one short second he shuts his eyes, just to be able to feel their hands in his, squeezing. No, he is not alone.

He is not alone when they come to get him either, early on that October morning. He can sense their presence and that’s when he finally believes to have figured out what they are – doesn’t every culture have its own concepts of creatures that guide the soul to the after life? Angels, spirits, valkyries… it doesn’t matter what they are. He’s just glad they’re here, giving him strength on this last day. He doesn’t have to close his eyes now to feel them, and some part of him knows what this means. They hold on to him when he walks down the corridor, their hands warm and reassuring in his.

He lets go of them once he’s spoken his final words. He doesn’t need them anymore, not in this world. There is nothing left to fear now, not even that they vanish. He looks at them for the first time, just before they pull the hood over his head. They’re standing next to the priest and they’re smiling.  
“I’ll see you again,” he whispers and he knows it’s the truth, they will wait for him on the other side.

**Author's Note:**

> For more nazi fic curated by the Baldur von Schirach Society for Poetic Souls (BvSSfPS) go to [aus-der-traum.tumblr.com](http://www.aus-der-traum.tumblr.com)


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